Steele Forsaken
by RSteele82
Summary: Part 1 in the four part Steele Forsaken Series. Steele and Laura search for answers during the four months between her leaving him for Westfield, and reuniting in the streets of London.
1. Chapter 1: What is there Left to Say?

**_Part 1 of the Steele Forsaken Series._**

 ** _Chronicles the four months between Steele of Approval and Steele Searching._**

 ** _For the most effective reading, my work should be read in chronological order as many of my one off's are spun into the history of the characters later on down the line. The chronological order of what I've written to date are as follows:_**

 ** _Steele Torn & Trying to Holt On_**  
 ** _Cannes Steele be Trusted (co-written with the super-talented SuzySteele)_** _ **  
**_ ** _Steele Forsaken (Pt 1 of the Steele Forsaken Series)_**  
 ** _Steele Mending (Pt 2 of the Steele Forsaken Series)_**  
 ** _Steele Working out the Details (Pt 3 of the Steele Forsaken Series)_**  
 ** _Steele Settling In (Pt 4 of the Steele Forsaken Series)_**  
 ** _Steele Finding Comfort_**  
 ** _Steele Holting on To Christmas (Pt 1 of the Steele Holting on To the Holidays Series)_**  
 ** _Steele Holting on To The Holidays (Pt 2 of the Steele Holting on to the Holidays Series)_**  
 ** _Holting on to the Moments_**  
 ** _Steele Cold Relief_**  
 ** _Steele Cloned_**  
 ** _Steele Hurdling Obstacles_**  
 ** _Steeling the Big Apple_**  
 ** _Steele Dying to Get it Right_**  
 ** _Holting Steele (Pt 1 of the Be Steele My Heart Series)_**  
 ** _Be Steele My Heart (Pt 2 of the Be Steele My Heart Series)_**  
 ** _Steele Pursued (Pt 1 of the Steele Tested)_**

 ** _Standard Disclaimers apply: I hold no ownership or rights to the series or characters. I simply choose to borrow the characters I love to write._**

* * *

Chapter 1: What Was There Left To Say?

He left that fateful night, without a word, a letter, a collect phone call. The only contact he'd made, if one could call it that, was when he'd mailed the Agency's restored license to her on his way back to his flat from LAX.

The only thing he'd written then was the Agency's address on the envelope. What was there left to say?

She'd ended them again, stunning him. Only a couple nights before, they'd been curled up on the couch at his flat together, watching _Dark Victory_ (Bette Davis, George Brent, Humphrey Bogart, Warner Bros., 1939). The evening had been filled with tender kisses, soft touches, quiet words. Tucked behind her on the couch, arm wrapped around her waist, her head nestled on his arm, he'd been so utterly… content… that it had been he, for a change, that had dozed, waking only when she extracted herself from his arms and leaned down to press her lips against his cheek, bidding him a good night. He'd slept on the couch that evening, where her scent still lingered, where he imagined he could still feel her warmth, wishing that it was she still near instead of only the memory of her.

What was there left to say?

He'd thought to fight back this time, unlike after her decision in Cannes when he'd gone along with blithely with her decision even as his heart ached, even as he knew he'd wait her out until she came around. He'd considered it his just desserts at the time, for what he'd done, and had had little choice but to wait her out, hope that she'd rescind her edict. She'd at least left the door cracked open by recognizing the value of their partnership.

But this time? She'd disengaged wholly from him. The finality of her decision was there on her face, in those lovely brown eyes, in the flatness of her normally lilting voice. He'd been only able to sit and watch as everything he'd come to cherish in his life imploded. Partner? Gone. Dearest friend? Gone. The woman his heart had pined for the last three years? Gone. A career he took pride in? Gone. All in the few moments it had taken her to utter the words, lifelessly, as though they'd cost her nothing even as they'd cost him everything.

* * *

 _ **"All I'm suggesting is that maybe we take some time, think about it for a while. That's all."**_

* * *

What was there left to say?

She'd obliterated him, then had stood and with the grace that had enthralled him for years, left his flat without another word spoken, without a single glance back. He'd sat frozen in the same place on the couch trying to figure out what had happened. How? Why? The only thing that came to mind was the loss of the Agency license, for which she held him to blame. Nearly an hour had passed before the realization came to him. In restoring the license to her, perhaps he could set this right. But he knew above all else two things: Firstly, he could not withstand another four months of strain between them, four more months of having her near but only able to draw her close when he dared to step across the line; and, secondly, this time he wouldn't simply accept it for fear of her outright banishing him – no, this time, he'd fight. But in the end…

What was there left to say?

He'd done as he'd planned, through threats and intimidation the Agency's license had been restored and placed in his hand before he left the Bureau offices. He'd gone directly to the office, knowing all too well that she buried herself in her work in times of upheaval. He'd even attributed her that: despite how it had appeared, she would be troubled as well. The light in her office blazed bright from the street below. He'd been surprised to find the door locked, even more surprised to find her not there. Even more stunning was the hastily scrawled note he'd found on her desk: Mexico City, Flight 1429, 8:30 PM, Gate 21. His mind had fumbled. She? Running? He'd left in pursuit of her, thinking to tell her…

What was there left to say?

He'd watched the last of his hope crumble, one piece at a time, as he stood in the departure lounge at LAX. First _he_ boarded. Even as the thought had crossed his mind, he'd dismissed it. No, not her. She would never do this, not _this_ of all things. He'd clung to that thought as though it were a lifeline, even as he scanned the breezeway for her. He found her, thought to call out. Noted her bag. Stood silent. Watched as she boarded the plane behind the man she'd met a mere forty-eight hours before, at best. Heard his heart, his faith, his trust, shatter like Waterford crystal tossed into a fireplace.

What was there left to say?

For three years he'd stayed for the dream of her. For three years he'd waited to finally know her in the purest of all forms. For three years, he'd cast aside his former ways, choosing, instead, long, lonely nights filled with nothing more than the memory of the last time her lips had been beneath his, the last time he'd tasted her, felt her in his arms. For three years, he'd devoted his time to changing into the man she needed him to be. For three years he'd waited her out, giving the time she needed to get past her fears, her inhibitions. In less than three minutes, she'd made it clear, all he'd done was still not enough. Then, less than three hours later, she'd destroyed everything he'd ever believed of her.

What was there left to say?

Turning to look out the window of the plane, he watched the lights of LA fading into darkness, and began trying to obliterate his memories of her.


	2. Chapter 2: How Can It Be Explained?

Chapter 2: How Can it Be Explained?

She turned and left his flat without a backwards glance. With the single minded determination for which she was known, she'd ruthlessly locked down her doubts and driven home to the loft. She packed, quickly and methodically. Changed out of her business suit and into a fun little outfit, in homage to the bright, sunny place to which she was about to travel. Securing the loft, she got into the Rabbit and drove with purpose towards the airport, brutally quashing the questions, and their answers, that would have left her quaking if she'd acknowledged them.

She'd pulled off to the side of the road a mile from the airport exit and leaned her head against the steering wheel, convincing herself she could go through with it. She ferociously tamped down the feelings that made her feel the sharp talons of panic were clawing at her. After all, she craved regimen. She needed to know what her life held for her from day-to-day. For pity's sake, she'd spent _years_ reinventing herself. It was who she was now. Who she'd promised herself she would be. That woman people described as nice, successful, somewhat reserved, self-contained, responsible… and believed in the good old-fashioned protestant work ethic. Never mind that she was Catholic.

She snorted softly to herself, put the car in drive and continued on.

With him, she'd be that person, she reminded herself again as she walked down the breezeway, her small overnight bag slung over her shoulder. Whereas with _him_ , it had become far too easy not to be. No, this was right. It was logical. Never mind that she was already missing the champagne toast they shared on every flight together. Forget about the fact that they would not be playfully squabbling over a crossword puzzle as they flew toward their destination. It was silly to already be yearning for his subtle way of leaning towards her just enough so that when she dozed during the flight, her head would rest comfortably on his shoulder. She refused to think about how he'd tuck hair that had strayed while she slept behind her ear when she'd awaken.

How can it be explained?

* * *

" _ **I care very much for someone who, I think, cares very much for me. And even though we can't figure out a way to make it work, I can't really leave until I'm sure there's no reason to stay."**_

* * *

She'd gotten off the airplane without a glance back. With the single minded determination for which she was known, she pointed the Rabbit toward the Rossmore. Now, there were no doubts. But question on top of question abounded.

How can it be explained?

She knew there was a part of the story that she'd never tell him. The part about _him_. The look of absolute devastation she'd seen in his eyes tonight was one she'd never forget and a look that she was not prepared to cause again.

How can it be explained?

She needed to know how he felt about her. Needed to know that she was not traveling this often frightening, sometimes treacherous road alone. She knew she would not demand the words from him, at least not tonight. First, there were apologies to be made. Reasons to be given. It was enough to have realized that no man felt the depth of hurt that had shown in his eyes, on his face, tonight, if he didn't care… very deeply. The truth of that had been there for her to see with her own eyes, even if she had been determined not to acknowledge it at the time.

How can it be explained?

Unlike Cannes, it hadn't even been about him this time, despite her claims otherwise. It had been about her. She'd told him long ago in Acapulco she was terrified of losing herself in him. What she hadn't anticipated was finding a part of herself she'd long ago buried. In recent months, she'd begun reacquainting herself with that carefree, impulsive, grab life by the horns and hang on, Laura Holt. It seemed since they'd tossed away the agreement from Cannes that she was seeing that old Laura a little bit more each day. Agreeing to dinner in San Francisco - before, of course, the reappearance of Rocky Sullivan had intruded upon those plans. Her joy at realizing he'd set up a mystery to lure her to San Francisco the following week in hopes of a little romance – before, of course, that make believe case became a real one. Her eager acceptance of his invitation for an impromptu trip to Catalina – before it was waylaid by Mildred's nephew and his prostitute friend. The trip to Hawaii she'd agreed to – before weather shut down LAX. Her delighted anticipation of their planned trip to Aspen – before she'd sprained her ankle making a ski vacation an impossibility.

She hadn't realized, up until that point, that carefree, impulsive, joi de vive Laura had snuck out of where she'd been put. Their trip to Las Vegas had driven it home. The trip in which she'd lost control, willing to gamble away everything on the next roll of the dice.

How can it be explained?

She'd told _him_ that she'd always been described, like he, good ole protestant work ethic included. The truth was, however, that it was only in the past few years she'd been described as such. Before that, before Wilson, she was as Wilson had once described: uninhibited, impulsive, enjoyed danger… passionate. She'd found out the hard way, the cost of being _that Laura._ The idea of that part of her reemerging was nothing short of terrifying. To know it was because he enjoyed all parts of her, including _that Laura_ , that encouraged her resurrection? She'd blamed him, she could admit that now.

How can it be explained?

 _He_ was the safe choice, not that she could tell him that. But _he_ was. A house in the suburbs, 2.3 kids and a dog. Scratch that. A cat. Everything orderly, everything predictable. Calendar's on the wall detailing each of their days. Vacations planned long in advance, around, of course, career demands. There would have been no surprises, not with _him_. No wild, carefree Laura making unannounced visits. Boring, but safe none the less.

How can it be explained?

She'd panicked, not unfamiliar territory for them. She'd pointed a finger at him out of habit, not unfamiliar territory for them, again. But she'd never coolly cast aside the fact that there was a relationship between them that extended well beyond co-workers. They were, above all else, through all the rest of it, friends. This evening, she'd even questioned that by posing the question if they had anything in common other than work.

How can it be explained?

Pulling the Rabbit into the drive at the Rossmore, she put it in park and left the engine running as she leaned back against her seat and rubbed a brow. How could she explain that it was never him, but her, her fears? How could she ease the hurt she'd caused him in the process? How does one take back words that should never have been spoken in the first place? How do you show, despite those words, that you care and care as deeply as he? Without thought, she turned off the engine of the car and reached for her overnight bag. She had few answers to all those other questions, but knew, if he could forgive her, trust her one more time, then it was time to move forward. They'd never know where this could go unless lines stopped being drawn.

How can it be explained?

That she knew, the moment she walked into his flat that he was gone. Maybe it was as simple as the look in his eyes the last time she saw him. He'd hung on for nearly three years, because there had been, even in their worst of times, a sliver of hope that they'd find their way. She'd left not even that sliver when she'd ended them earlier. She had watched it die in his eyes, right before her. While neither of them had ever said it aloud, both knew he'd stayed all these years only for the hope of what they might have together. Maybe it was because the apartment didn't feel warm, inviting, as it had since the day he'd moved in. The apartment always had an inviting air about it, even when he was not home. On this night, it felt… cold. Maybe she knew for no other reason than the door had been left unlocked, as though there was nothing left of value within.

How can it be explained?

That her heart now lay in shreds at her feet, as she'd left his earlier, when he was simply gone. Those sharp talons of panic that had teased at her consciousness earlier, now sank their teeth firmly into her psyche, consuming her. After they released her, she could only stretch out across his bed and pray that he would return to her, as she had to him.


	3. Chapter 3: Richard Blaine

Chapter 3: Richard Blaine

After arriving in Sydney, Steele lost no time in renting a small cottage on a secluded part of Palm Beach. Making a short stop at a local grocer he picked up what he'd need to stock the larder for a few weeks, then picked up several bottles of fine, aged scotch before continuing on his way to what would be his temporary home.

Despite his aversion to over imbibing in alcohol, he spent the majority of the first week there with drink in hand – never quite drunk, but never quite sober either. He devoted his time to alternately licking the wounds left on his heart and cursing the day he'd met Laura Holt. He'd promised himself half a lifetime ago that he'd never allow anyone to get too close, never allow anyone to inspire such a capricious emotion as love. _Didn't learn your lesson, did you old sport,_ he browbeat himself regularly. _Gave up your pursuit of the Royal Lavulite for her. Became her Remington Steele and all the role required._

Several evenings, he walked the long balcony that looked out over the waters of the Tasman Sea ticking off the attributes Laura had imbued in her fictitious Remington Steele while drawing heavily on his glass of scotch. On night four, he lost himself the memory of the night they'd strolled around the fountain near Century Towers during the Dannon case. It was, after all, on that evening he'd believed for the first time he was truly rising to the demands of the man she'd invented.

* * *

" _ **You know, you're rapidly becoming the man I envisioned when I created Remington Steele. Honest, courageous, caring, good humored… Sexy."**_

* * *

"Still not enough for you, though, eh, Miss Holt?" he ruminated aloud, bitterly. "No, not for you. Each misstep, no matter how well their meaning, another black mark upon me, another excuse to keep yourself from me."

"Honest," he closed his eyes, and squeezed his glass almost painfully in his hands. "What about your own honesty, Miss Holt? Conducting a romance with a man you'd barely known a full two days, whilst I was dodging Bureau and bullets, trying to find who had shot at you?"

On night fifteen, he permitted himself to become shockingly lost in his cups. Fury had set in. Fury at himself, for breaking the vow he'd made years before. Fury at his treacherous heart for allowing itself to be stolen by a petite woman, with a venerable temper, deep brown eyes he could get lost in, silk for hair, and tiny dapples of colors sprinkled across her skin that enraptured him. Fury at that same woman who'd stolen his heart like a thief in the night years before, only to toss it away when it so suited her. His mind moved from memory-to-memory, his fury at himself and her mounting as the night gave way to morning.

* * *

 _ **"Laura, can you honestly stand there and tell me that you don't want us to be lovers?"**_

 _ **"You know I do."**_

 _ **"Well, then why aren't we on the phone right now? Planning a weekend in paradise? What is it you're really afraid of?"**_

 _ **"Langston Drewes."**_

 _ **"Who?"**_

 _ **"Exactly! Who! A mystery man who cut a fast tango through a woman's life and left her with nothing but a scrapbook full of memories. I don't want that."**_

* * *

"You made certain of that, didn't you? Instead it is _me_ left with that infernal scrapbook! Memories of how it feels to hold you in my arms. Memories of your taste. Memories of your smile. Memories of your scent. Memories of your touch. Bloody well made certain I was the one left holding that scrapbook, you did, while you… while YOU ran off with another man!"

He paced the balcony furiously.

"What have I to show for nearly three years, eh? Not a bloody thing _, that's what_. Memories of you never letting me past those damned walls of yours. Memories of long, lonely nights when I craved your nearness. Memories of how no matter what I did, it was never quite enough in your eyes."

He stopped pacing, his breath coming hard and fast at the last memory. "Memories of watching you get on that bloody plane and knowing you'd prefer to give yourself to a veritable stranger than me. That's what I'm left with!" He'd slung his glass into the wall of the cottage, watching with satisfaction as it shattered.

Staggering into the cottage, listing decidedly to the left, he grabbed the remnants of the bottle of scotch. Plopping himself down on the couch, he drank himself into oblivion, mumbling in the last seconds of wakefulness.

"I never wanted the bloody scrapbook. All I ever wanted was you."

Blessedly, for the first time in years, his dreams were free of Laura.

* * *

For two days and nights, she'd scoured LA, revisiting every place they'd gone together, every place he'd ever mentioned. It didn't matter how sumptuous the venue or if it were one of the seediest haunts she'd ever seen. It didn't matter if they visited the place together, his hand resting lightly on her back, he in his tux, she in a formal gown. It didn't matter if the last placed she'd stopped would have left him furious that she'd put herself at such risk, if, of course, he was here to know.

Although in her heart she knew he wouldn't have stayed in LA, she continued to search, until, exhausted, she'd return home, only to stare at the ceiling for what was left of the night. The woman who was always driven by logic, who carefully analyzed any decision before it was made, was driving on pure emotion in the wake of his leaving.

On night three, she dragged herself out of her bed where once more she'd been contemplating the roof above, secured her loft, then driven across town. She'd torn apart his flat, looking for something, anything that might tell her where he'd gone. The only proof she'd found that he'd even once existed there at all were his beloved movie posters still hanging on the wall next to his bedroom, and the crumpled white dress shirt with French cuffs that he'd worn to the office four days prior. Forgotten, she knew, in the bottom of hamper where it had lain.

Stripping out of the pajamas she'd worn for the short trip to his flat, she buttoned herself into his shirt. Lifting the collar to her nose, she inhaled deeply his scent that still lingered there. Her heart thundered painfully in her chest at the familiar scent, but the fact that she had something of him to hold close was of some small comfort. She slid into the bed that only four long nights before she'd thought she might end up sharing with him, and buried her face in the pillow that, like his shirt, still held his scent. She slept, her restless dreams filled with memories of him.

She woke on day four, disoriented momentarily, as his alarm clock that she'd set had blared next to her. Turning it off, she reached for the phone and dialed Mildred's home number. She claimed to be slightly under the weather, "Oh, and by the way, Mildred, Mr. Steele has left to handle a case that requires a great deal of discretion." The lie slid easily from her lips, and she could only hope it would quell Mildred's insatiable curiosity.

That day, she went through his apartment again, with the exacting thoroughness attributed to the successful P.I. that she was, taking note of the most minute of details. He'd taken nothing that had been here when he arrived. The cookware that he'd devoted himself to supplementing with the type and quality a chef such as he required, stood in the kitchen cupboards, though his own cookware was conspicuously gone. The wine glasses, goblets and glasses that he'd outfitted the apartment with, in anticipation of their various and sundry dinner parties, not to mention their nights before the fire, were also absent, although the set of champagne flutes she'd gifted him with only two months before remained.

A man who detested clutter, his personal contributions to the décor of the apartment she'd decorated before he became him, had been minimal. But those pieces of art he took pride in were long gone, only the knickknacks she'd placed about still there. With a deep breath and a hand held to her stomach, she returned to his bedroom. His nightstand drawers remained empty, as they had been the night before, but still she couldn't help noting the Agatha Christie novel he'd been reading and a tome on the history of London were missing as well. Yet, a glance at his dresser showed each of the books on the history of the cinema that she'd given him over the years, stood cold and lonely there.

Steeling herself, she dared a glance at the glass table that sat between the two chairs in his bedroom. It was looking there that she'd known, unequivocally, that he'd left. The key still rested there. The key that he'd carried for three years. The key to his home. That small piece of metal had made a statement as loud as it was painful, that he no longer felt he had a place here. That with their time together now at an end, there was nothing left to keep him here. Picking up the key, she went to the living room and retrieved her purse, then slipped it on her keychain next to a duplicate key she carried. Something that had been his that she could at least keep with her.

Crossing the living room, she sank down into a chair there, curling up in it. It stung that he'd clearly left everything she ever given him, any reminders of her, behind. It spoke to the depth of his injury, although his eyes on that night had stated it clearly enough. She wished fervently that she could go back in time and change the events of that night. She wished with all her being that he was there right now. But it really didn't matter what she wished. This wasn't _The Wizard of Oz_ , and a couple of clicks of ruby slippers wouldn't make those wishes come true.

She sat up a little straighter as an idea came to her, but almost as quickly as it came to her, she dismissed it, her shoulders slouching. For a second… one, brief second… she'd considered getting her hands on Steele's phone bills and finding the last number at which he'd likely contacted Chalmers. Now she snorted softly and closed her eyes. Daniel Chalmers. It would likely make the man's year to know that he'd finally won. His Harry was no longer aligned with her. There was not a doubt in her mind Chalmers would rub it in, make her bleed a little more, before going off in search of Steele himself, intent on luring him back into the life.

The mere thought of that took her to her feet again. Slipping out of his shirt and back into her pajamas, she wrapped the light coat she'd worn the night before around her, grabbed her purse and his shirt, then headed home.

She spent the next ten days working herself into the ground. On day seven she'd presented Mildred with the list of Steele's aliases requesting that she scour the airlines to see when or if they appeared on a flight manifest and to where. When Mildred had quizzed her at length about the why's and what for's, she finally snapped:

"It's part of the case Mr. Steele is working. I don't have the details yet. So _please_ , can you just get to work on them?"

Mildred had recoiled at her sharp words. She knew she should apologize, but was simply too weary to do so. So she'd turned and returned to her office, slumping down in her chair and resting her forehead on arms laid across her desk. She uttered the phrase that had been on auto-repeat in her mind for the last 14 ½ days.

"Where are you, Mr. Steele?"


	4. Chapter 4: Paul Fabrini

Chapter 4: Paul Fabrini

Somewhere around day eighteen, Steele packed up and flew to Italy. After more than two weeks of nursing his wounded heart, he was no better off than the night she'd ended them. It had come to him, as he was walking a stretch of the beach the day before, that the only way he'd get _her_ out of his system was to do the one thing he'd not done since shortly after he'd met her: return to his old ways with women. Allow none of them to get under his skin, charm them into his bed quickly, then say goodbye with a wink and a smile. In doing so, he'd not only have a jolly good time while relieving the sexual frustration that had built across the years, but it would also close the chapter on _her_ once and for all.

With that in mind, he settled himself in a suite of a luxury hotel in Portofino. For the first few days he was there, he'd made it a point to pick up a stunning woman at the beach, and be seen about town with her in some of the finer dining establishments at night. He'd convinced himself during those few days, that he'd allowed the young woman of the day to fade into the night without bedding her, as she'd been nothing more than a means to an end: to make sure to run into old associates of Paul Fabrini's, all the while knowing once his return was public information, invitations to extravagant parties would abound.

Abound they had. Despite the fact that Fabrini was the most formal of his persona's, Steele's natural good humor and charm showed through Fabrini's tightly controlled, courtly countenance. Soon he found himself with more opportunities than even he, at his prime, could have wished for.

He rejected each of them summarily, night after night, returning to his suite perplexed, angry and utterly frustrated. Against his will, he'd find himself comparing them to the very woman he was bound and determined to wipe from his memory for good. The tall blond with the 'large rack', didn't have _her_ quick wit. The slender brunette whose build reminded him of _hers_ , didn't have _her_ grace. The redhead reeked of Aquanet, instead of smelling lightly of honeysuckle, grass and sunshine. This one's eyes weren't like puddles of warm chocolate and didn't shimmer underneath the evening stars; that one's hair was too course, not like the silk of _her_ hair that he'd once enjoyed burying his fingers in.

The worst of it was the fact that each woman's shortcomings only invited _her_ to appear in his dreams at night, leaving him tied into knots when he'd awaken. After a month of what he considered utter nonsense, he'd finally taken a break from the whirlwind dating for a little more than a week. Time to huddle with himself, as it were.

Finally, he vowed to himself that whatever beauty landed on his arm that night, regardless of her shortcomings, he'd bed her and be done with it, convinced once he successfully navigated that first hurdle, the rest would come much easier. He'd tried to close the deal, he really had. Had brought the tall, curvaceous blonde up to his suite, had kissed her, laved her neck and shoulders with his mouth and tongue, ignoring that niggling voice that insisted on reminding him that the woman he was dallying with couldn't measure up to _her_. But when the woman's hand made its way under his belt to stroke him, he'd felt nothing – except that is, the feeling that he was cheating on _her._ Swamped by guilt, he made a hasty retreat, wishing the woman a good evening and showing her to the door, making an excuse for his sudden about face, an excuse he couldn't even recall five minutes later.

Alone, he slumped in a chair, holding his face in his hands, muttering a creative string of curses under his breath.

With the truth there in front of him, day after day, night after night, he'd no choice but to acknowledge it was only she that he wanted, even now. Those days of carousing had long since ended because of her, and weren't so easily resumed in the wake of her. He'd fallen head-over-heels for her, long, long ago, a fact his heart would not easily forget.

He forced himself now to accept it: that he'd been missing _her_ since that night with a fervor that left every molecule of his being aching. During the day he thought endlessly about her, at night his dreams were filled with her. Quite against his will, he loved every frustrating, exasperating, infuriating, inhibited, fear-filled, titillating, compassionate, lovely part of her.

On day sixty-two of his self-imposed exile, he packed up the solitary suitcase he'd brought with him, and Jean Morel departed for France.

* * *

Fifteen days after she ended them, Laura found herself unable to force herself to go into the office. The day prior an anxious client had continually demanded to speak with Mr. Steele himself over a rather mundane matter. She'd patiently explained, countless times, that Mr. Steele was out of the country on business, and the client had become increasingly petulant. Finally, she'd sent him packing, telling him it was her professional opinion that he should seek help elsewhere. No sooner had the client left, than she did as well. For two weeks now, she'd fielded the inevitable requests to meet with him, a constant reminder that she had no idea where he was, _how_ he was.

As though she needed any reminders. The first of his names had come back on one of Mildred's now routine, flight manifest checks. Richard Blaine had arrived in Australia the night after he left, and then had simply disappeared into the wind. He hadn't used any of his cards to book passage on the flight, to reserve a room. Checks under the name Richard Blaine had also come up dry.

Fourteen days ago, at least, he'd been safe and on the move. Could the same be said two weeks later? Not knowing was driving her crazy, along with the other myriad of questions that constantly paraded through her mind.

Had he slipped so easily back into his old life? Was he even now planning a heist, a con? Had he found his way back to Daniel? Felicia? - a thought that left her heart flopping about in her chest each time it came to mind.

The incident with the client the day prior had left her on edge, unable to sleep. She wandered about her loft for hours on end, trying to play the piano, to read a book, even to exercise and found the body was unwilling to do what the heart had no interest in. She'd finally crawled into bed, wearing his shirt that two weeks later no longer held his smell. She tried to take comfort that the silk pressed against her body, was once pressed against his. It was of no comfort. She'd tossed, turned, and when she'd resigned herself to actually counting sheep, had leapt from her bed with a frustrated growl. Tossing together an overnight bag, she wrapped her robe around her – appearances be damned – locked up the loft and went to the only place where she might find some solace.

She slipped into his bed thirty minutes later, and burrowed her face in the pillow, breathing deeply. Even as a small modicum of peace descended, she choked back the tears that were threatening. She fell into a deep but trouble sleep, the dream that had begun ten days before sweeping her away. The dream in which she continually demanded to know who he was, interspersed with the memory of being in his arms, losing herself in his smell, his touch, his taste. By the time morning had arrived, she knew that going into the office that day would be an absolute impossibility. She didn't have it in her to see his name on the Agency's door, to see his office door knowing that he was not ensconced behind it, to answer one more client's query about when he would be in.

She spent the day on his couch, where they'd once curled up together to watch a movie, talking quietly with one another, exchanging brief but intoxicating kisses. How many nights had she dozed off in his arms on nights like those, she wondered now. More than she could count, that was for certain. That she'd been angry with him for doing the same now seemed childish… priggish even. She damned her temper, even as she leaned into his pillow upon which her head rested, to breath in his rich scent again.

She buried herself in the old movies he so adored, even as her mind continued to work through her most pressing issue while she did. At five minutes before five, she called the office and gave Mildred explicit instructions: From here forward, any potential clients would be informed Mr. Steele was out of town, and if they didn't wish to work with her, alone, then they would need to seek services elsewhere.

The next day, as she passed through those doors with his name on them, saw his office door behind which nothing stirred, she questioned why she'd ever imagined that directive would solve her problem. The only thing that would solve her heartache was for him to somehow, miraculously appear.

On day twenty-two, Mildred let out a whoop as the printer began spewing forth information. "Miss Holt, I've got some information for the Boss," she called out across the reception area toward Laura's office.

In her office, Laura dropped the fingers that had been vigorously working at her brow. Standing, she walked briskly to Mildred's desk.

"What do you have?" she asked, grimacing a little at the eagerness in her voice.

"Paul Frabrini flew out of Sydney Australia four days ago, and disembarked in Milan, Italy. Are you going to pass the information on to the Boss?"

"Not yet, Mildred. First, we need to do a check of all the hotels, I don't care how small. Let's find out if we can determine where Morel is staying so we can… pass the information onto Mr. Steele as to where to find him."

"You got it!" Mildred told her enthusiastically.

Returning to her office, Laura leaned against her desk, letting out a sigh born of tension soothed. Four days ago. Four days ago he was safe, still out there. With a little luck she'd know where to find him within the next twenty-four hours.

Two days later, she cursed her damnable luck. Nothing. Once more, he seemed to have faded back into that misty night from where he'd once come. They'd checked every hotel, even hostel, in Milan and had summarily come up empty handed.

Twenty-four days. It had been twenty-four days since last she'd seen him and still she was no closer to finding him. By day forty-five, three full weeks since last any of his identities had appeared, she'd worried herself into a dither. Each time the phone in her office rang, she'd jump, as a frisson of fear would skirt down her spine. What would the phone call hold? Word that he'd been arrested somewhere in the world? The idea of her devil-may-care Mr. Steele spending his life behind bars was devastating. Had he be injured in the course of a heist, killed in the course of a con? How would she ever get to him in time if the former, how would her heart ever heel if the latter? The talons of panic that had gotten their hooks into her that first night, continually clutched at her, though she ruthlessly fought them off.

It was only the thought, as the very last second, that it might be him, that would have her snatching up the receiver of the phone, her anxious anticipation clear in her voice, as was her disappointment when it was never him.

After a week of this, she'd instructed Mildred to buzz her and announce who was calling for her. Granted, Mildred had looked at her, put out, but she made no attempt to apologize as she was desperately trying to preserve her peace of mind.

By day sixty-one, two full months since she'd last seen him, she questioned even her tentative hold on that. She shut down the Agency for a four-day weekend, and retreated to his flat. The lingering scent on his pillow had been taken over by her own, so she turned to his second and last pillow, hoping against hope that he'd reach out to her before the last of him was gone.


	5. Chapter 5: Jean Morel

Chapter 5: Jean Morel

Flying into Nice, Jean Morel rented a car and drove down to Cannes. He thought, briefly, about retiring to Daniel's villa in Theoule-Sur-Mer, but dreaded the potential consequences of such a decision. If Daniel were in residence, he'd no doubt that he'd have to listen as Daniel crowed that he knew little Linda would eventually tire of him and send him on his way, all the while attempting to convince him to return to the life. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't considered the latter, but it seemed that time of his life had run its course. After three years, it appeared he was married to the concepts of honesty and helping people. He had no idea, yet, what he would do to occupy his days, but was certain something would draw his interest soon enough.

So, decision made, he'd stopped in Cannes and rented a small villa, paying cash in advance for a month's lodgings. Like in Palm Beach, he stocked up on provisions, but unlike his stay there, the scotch stayed on the market's shelves. He selected a couple of fine bottles of wine to accompany meals or to enjoy during a quiet night as he listened to the surf pound against the shore. As an afterthought, he tossed a small sketchpad and a pack of pencils amongst his purchases.

It had occurred to him on the flight from Milan to Nice, that he had nary so much as a picture of her, not a single scrap of paper to remember her by. He'd learned earlier in the year during the Golden Dugout case that she carried a picture in her wallet of the two of them standing in front of the Agency doors. Despite the fact the infernal Cannes Agreement was fully intact, she still carried it with her. He'd been endlessly touched by the thought, and it had helped the hope he'd been clinging to that they'd find their way back to one another burgeon.

She had any number of pictures of him to remember him by, if she so desired. For bloody sake, there was an entire wall of them in his office, all the newspaper clippings she'd collected across the years tucked into a file. He blasphemied himself for his oversight, then cursed himself again at the realization, if nothing else, he could have drawn her any number of times in years past. To that end, the supplies currently nestled among his groceries.

He settled into the serene villa then mulled the idea of paying a surprise visit on Henri and Joelle. _In a few days, perhaps,_ he thought, dismissing the notion, at least for now. At the moment he needed to sort out what do about his revelation in Portofino. The idea of going back to LA held remarkable appeal but the thought of watching her with a new lover set off a host of emotions he was unprepared to deal with. It had occurred to him, as he'd packed yet again, that maybe she'd not gone to bed with the man. After all, they'd traveled together for years, and not once had she allowed them to cross that line. With all her rules, conditions, fears, inhibitions… there was every chance she'd put the kibosh on anything happening at all. He could forgive her anything but having given herself to the man.

It was far more than jealousy, he finally admitted to himself on day sixty-six and sixty-seven. In his mind she was his, had been for nearly three years now, whether they'd consummated this relationship, or not. She was the best part of his life - thorniness, insecurities, temper and all. He looked forward to every minute they would spend together each day with the eagerness and thrill of a toddler thinking of a lolly. It was to him that she would turn, however reluctantly, in times of turmoil. It was with him that she would speak last each night. They had been in one another's pockets for so long now that he couldn't help but wonder if she was feeling the loss as strongly as he. It was the fear that she was not that kept him traveling along.

On day sixty-eight he jolted awake near dawn. He'd dreamt of her, as he always did, but in his dreams he could no longer recall the scent of her, the lilt in her voice. The thought had been so disturbing that he'd woken, immediately testing his waking memory to find it fading. He gone to the terrace overlooking the Mediterranean pacing its small confines. The thought of no longer being able to recall her lovely voice at will set him completely of kilter. Repeatedly, he glanced backwards into the house. _Could I?_ he wondered, then paced some more. _Dare I?_ he asked himself again, turning to stare into the house once more.

He glanced at his watch and made his decision. It would be just before ten p.m. in LA. Mildred and she would have long since departed. A simple phone call, her voice on the Agency answering machine. He'd be able to rest, almost soundly, once he was able to commit her voice to memory again.

He strode into the house and picked up the receiver, dialing the number of the Remington Steele Agency.

* * *

After closing the Agency for four days, like those first days after he'd left, Laura turned to work to sooth her tattered nerves. After all, it seemed pointless to go home, to fret and stew. There was no point in even attempting to go to bed early, as that would only mean more time staring at the ceiling above as she willed sleep to come. The fiscal quarter had ended the week before, and there were quarterly tax returns to file, accounts to balance. There was comfort to be found in the orderliness of numbers. Their inflexible state could be depended upon whereas little else could be in a world that often seen arbitrary at best.

 _Sixty-eight. There's a number_ , she muttered to herself, before returning her attentions back to the reports in front of her. Reaching for her cup of lukewarm tea she took a sip even as she circled an expenditure that would require further thought on how to classify it. Business expense or personal? She shook her head, unsure, then lifted her head, tilting it with curiosity when the Agency phone rang. With a shrug, she decided to let answering machine pick it up. No one knew she was at the office this evening, and if it was Mildred, she'd prefer not to have to answer increasingly persistent questions on why she had all but lived in the office the last three days.

She snorted quietly as the caller hung up after the beep, laying odds on said caller having been Mildred, seeing if she'd gone home as instructed. She knew Mildred was beside herself with worry about both Mr. Steele's whereabouts and her own volatile emotional state since he'd left. That one day she would avoid the Agency, then on another practically move-in, has their trusted secretary's antennae for trouble rioting.

 _Well, what she doesn't know won't hurt her_ , she justified, then returned to her balance sheets.

* * *

He sat down heavily, a hand rubbing across his face. He'd been unprepared for the jolt of pure longing followed by a trill of happiness running down his spine that had accompanied hearing her voice on the Agency recording. _Good Lord, how I've missed the sound of her voice,_ he admitted to himself. Helpless to stop himself, he picked up the receiver and dialed the Agency again.

* * *

The phone rang again. Once more, the caller left no message, simply hung up after the beep. With an aggravated sigh, she accepted Mildred had found her out. Glancing at her watch, she was shocked to see that it was five after ten. By the time she drove home, prepared for bed and stared at the ceiling for three or four hours, she'd barely get four hours of sleep, at best, before KROT started blaring from her alarm clock radio. With another sigh, this time of resignation, she stood and stretched, then slipped her feet into her heels. Making a note in her mind of where she'd left off, she flipped off the office light, just as the phone began to shrill again.

She listened to the outgoing message for the third time in the last five minutes, then, sure enough, this time Mildred's voice came through the speaker.

" _Miss Holt, I seemed to have gotten lost on my way home from the bowling alley."_ Laura rolled her eyes at the obvious prevarication. Mildred was at that bowling alley three, sometimes four nights a week. Got lost? She gave a little snort of disbelief. _"Ended up passing by your place not a half hour ago. Imagine my surprise to see that the Rabbit wasn't in its parking place. I'm calling your place in a half hour, and if you don't answer, I'm coming to the office and dragging you out. I mean it. Go home!"_

With a soft laugh and a roll of her eyes, she didn't doubt for a second that Mildred would do exactly as promised if she didn't find her home. Picking up her purse, she closed her office door. She was half way across the reception area when the phone began to ring again. Amusement turned to irritation. _I'm a grown woman for God's sake, and He knows I certainly don't need a second mother!_ she groused to herself.

Yanking the receiver up off of Mildred's phone, she cut off the outgoing message midway through.

"I promise you, Mildred, I'm leaving now. Call the loft-" Her soliloquy ended abruptly when a clearly masculine voice sucked in his breath in surprise on the other end of the line. Her heart stilled for several seconds then began to race. Gasping herself, she blurted out, "Mr. Steele, is that you?" Her voice betrayed her as she spoke, shaking. The party on the other side of the line remained quiet. "Oh God. Mr. Steele, is it you?" The silence continued to linger but the caller didn't disconnect. "Please, _talk to me_ ," she urged. When still no words were spoken, she said the only words she could think of through the cacophony in her head. "Come home," she whispered, twitching at the plea she heard in her voice. This time she heard a deep sigh, before the line was disconnected and the dial tone droned in her ear.

Dropping the receiver in its cradle, she numbly turned towards the doors of the Agency. Part of her was tempted to camp out in her office the remainder of the night to see if he called again. The more rational side of her knew if it was him, and she had only her instincts screaming at her that it was, that there would be no more calls to come.

She drove home to the loft, all the emotions that she'd kept bottled up since that first night, colliding against one another throughout her drive. She dutifully answered the phone when Mildred called, assuring the older woman she was home, safe, and going directly to bed. Wearily, she shed her clothes and pulled on Steele's shirt before dragging herself to her bed and climbing in. There, for the first time since the night that she'd ended them, she allowed the wetness to silently slide past her lashes until she fell into a restless sleep.

* * *

If he thought himself unprepared for his reaction to her recorded voice, he'd been caught between joy and heartache to hear her voice speaking directly to him, saying the name he'd claimed for himself long ago. He'd heard the strain, the weariness in her voice when she'd addressed who she believed to be Mildred. Stunned that she was there, answering the phone no less, he could only draw in a quick breath. In that slight sound, she'd known. He was unsure why he was surprised. After all, he could tell by the few words spoken, that she was no more prepared to find him on the other end of the line, than he, she.

He'd wanted to ask her if she'd changed her stance on their last conversation, if she was ready for him to come home. But words had failed him. Him. The consummate conman well-known by his peers for being able to talk himself around anything, held speechless by the sound of her voice, the world of hurt between them. In the end he'd only been able to listen, wishing he knew if she wanted him – the man with no name – to return home, or the man that represented her Agency. In the end, not knowing the answer to that question or how to ask it had led him to sigh in resignation then hang up the phone, disconnecting him from the one person in the world he yearned for a true connection with.

He took off on foot, walking for miles along the shoreline, hands tucked deep into his pockets. Hours later when he returned to the villa, he'd found no peace, no solace, no answers. He didn't find them on day sixty-nine or seventy.

On day seventy-one, it was Laura herself who provided the answers. This fact didn't surprise him in the least. After all, for the last three years he'd generally followed the course that she mapped out. Oh, he might take a fork in the road on occasion, a detour here and there, but he'd always find himself at her side for the journey at the end of the day. She was his compass, his barometer. The only person in his life he'd ever trusted enough to draw a map that he'd follow, knowing they'd come out on top at the end of the journey.

In the end, it was the words that had continually repeated in his mind for the last two and a half days – 'Come home'. Each time it echoed there he felt a sometimes painful, sometimes poignant tug on his heart as he recalled the words, the soft plea in her voice. In a rare moment of brutal honesty, he finally admitted several things to himself.

Despite how angry, how wounded he was when he left, there was never a chance he wouldn't return. If he had any doubt about this at all, the proof lay within the fact that he'd left behind all but a single suitcase of clothing, toiletries and the pocket watch that linked him to his past. He'd not have admitted as much to himself even four days ago but he was, now and then, unable to let go of the life he had building there… of her… until he knew, beyond doubt, that there was nothing to salvage. He'd discovered long ago that he saw her as home, and he would not give up on it so easily.

Her betrayal had cut him more deeply than anything anyone before had done. She was the one person in his life he'd ever trusted beyond measure. She'd left him for another man, of that there was no doubt, as he'd seen it with his own eyes. But he simply did not believe she'd taken the man as a lover. Perhaps, his belief was only a necessary fantasy to soothe his own heart, but he didn't believe that to be the case, either. The woman he'd pursued for three years had too many rules, too many standards that she'd created after Wilson had walked out on her, and would be unable to simply toss them away.

He had no idea what it was going on in that magnificently complicated mind of hers that had set her on a path to ending them, but something clearly had. Since they'd ended her infernal Cannes Agreement, she'd been more open to the idea of stealing away together than he could ever recall her being before. Only a week before in Vegas, she'd spoken of the future as though she envisioned them together.

* * *

 _ **"If I'm not careful, Miss Holt, you could make an honest man of me."**_

 _ **"I'm counting on it, Mr. Steele."**_

* * *

Every instinct now screamed at him that something had scared her, sent her running once again. He knew there would be many restless nights ahead as he tried to pinpoint exactly what that was.

But, at the end of the day, it was how well he knew her. Knew every nuance of that lovely voice. She'd made no attempt to hide her hope that it was him, both times that she'd asked. He'd heard the quiet desperation when she asked that he speak to her. Heard the need, the loneliness when she'd asked him to come home. It would take a stronger man than he not to return to the one place he wanted to be when she'd made it so clear it was where she wished him to be as well.

Yet, despite his desire to pack his lone suitcase – now! – and book a flight to LA, it was not possible. The fact of the matter was, they'd never be able move forward unless he was able to offer proof of his commitment to her. Every time she'd backed away… closed the door… run… her fear that if she gave herself over to him she'd one day wake and find him gone had been at the root of it all. He was once, after all, the cheat, the con, the thief – a life he'd long ago walked away from for her. But he was still now, as he'd always been, the man without a name. Until he could give her that to hold on to, she'd remain afraid of his past, as well as his one day disappearing into the misty night, leaving her behind.

Until he could give her that, he could not return. Those months after Cannes had been some of the most difficult days of his life – to have her near but unable to draw her close. These last months without her at all had been nothing short of torture. He could not go through it again, that much he knew.

He'd not return to her until he could give her what he'd never had. His name.

On day seventy-two, Michael O'Leary stepped on a plane bound for Ireland.

* * *

She knew that the call should have brought some comfort. Instead, it only brought more questions and she felt herself beginning to break from the fear, the worry. Why hadn't he answered her? Was he unable to? Was he too ashamed to? Had he returned to the life? Was he hurt? Was he in jail? Why had he called?

On day seventy, the printer had diligently worked to print out yet another manifest. John Morel had arrived in Nice. When Mildred had given her the news, she'd returned to her office without a word. For nearly an hour she stood looking out the window at nothing at all. When Mildred had finally breached her sanctuary to ask if she should begin contacting all hotels in the area, Laura had told her not to bother. She knew with absolute confidence that until the final name on the last of his five passports landed… somewhere… that he would not be found.

If that final name appeared. If it could appear at all.

For a week after that phone call, she departed the office faithfully each evening, only to return after she knew Mildred would be gone. She waited, praying for the phone to ring, as she continued to wonder, to worry. She knew from Mildred that he'd not used his Agency credit card, that his checking account had been left untouched except for the payments for his flat and utilities that Mildred would diligently make out of its ever dwindling balance.

Was he sleeping on the streets again? Was he going to bed hungry? The idea of the last, would leave her rocking quietly, trying to find comfort. She remembered all too well how during his days as a child living on the street, the part that had left the biggest impression was the gnawing hunger he'd often faced. A part of her used to find it amusing that he'd sooner be interrupted kissing her than to miss a meal. Now, she found nothing amusing about that notion at all.

On day seventy-six she felt as though she'd driven a knife through her own heart, when the thought flitted through her mind that he'd likely returned to his old, womanizing ways. She couldn't understand why she reacted as she did, why the thought… hurt… _so_ … _damned_ … _much_. But it did. She'd always assumed that he had his… liaisons… satiating his physical needs, since she would not. Why, then, the idea of him making love to yet another stunning, voluptuous bimbo left her feeing… injured… lost… more alone than ever… she had no idea. But it did.

On day seventy-seven she discovered the answer to that quandary and that it had eluded her for all these years shocked her to the core: From the day they'd shared that first kiss on the dock, he'd needed her to be his and his alone. As much as she'd resisted him, resisted giving her heart over to him, it was still always there. The blue eyes that followed her with pride lighting them. The way he'd touch the small of her back to escort her into a room, making it known she was with him. The small touches throughout a day, as though he was subconsciously assuring himself that she was there, near. The way he'd kissed her on Freddie Smith's yacht, a feeling of desperation in the touch of the lips that had covered hers. His reaction to Dominick slathering her with suntan lotion in Mexico. The hurt so apparent in his eyes when he found her in only a robe, a dazed look upon her face, after she'd kissed Beamis that day in her loft.

That she'd missed all the clues he'd left along the way, that she'd discarded so carelessly, even if only for mere hours, that kind of devotion, sent her skittering to her closet, then shortly afterward out the door for a run.

On day seventy-eight, she could be found curled up on the couch in her loft, a box of chocolate being rapidly devoured on the heels of another startling revelation. While she was certain he'd had his assignations at one point, she was equally certain he'd not had a single one since the night she'd backtracked on her decision that they would no longer see each other outside of work. They'd spent nearly every evening and weekend together since – at her loft or his flat, sharing dinner, dancing, curling up together to watch a movie. On those evenings when they were not together, they'd spoken by phone without fail… on more than a few occasions for hours at a time… before they went to sleep. He'd have been content to spend every evening with her. It was she who had insisted he maintain poker night with his friends, his fencing sessions.

Box of chocolates empty, she found they'd done nothing to rid of her of the ache in her heart, the gnawing fear in her gut, since he'd disappeared more than two months before.

On day seventy-nine, the printer at the office had once again begun ticking out information. Michael O'Leary had officially made his appearance, landing in Dublin a week before. That he was still on the move, still free, was of some comfort but that he'd not chosen to return to LA instead left her forlorn. That night, she once more curled up in his bed, losing herself in the fading scent of him. Soon she'd have nothing left of him, except an empty apartment and the memories.

As she fell asleep that night, she finally found the answer to two questions that had plagued her. Why was this time different than when she'd ended their personal relationship in Cannes? Why did he leave this time, but not then?

Penance. In Cannes, he had not only failed to trust her when he needed help, but betrayed her trust as well. He'd stayed, waited, hoped for absolution. This time when she'd ended them, he'd known in his heart the only thing he'd done wrong was dozing off when she'd been trying to tell him about the upcoming case. There was no possibility of reprieve this time, because there was no transgression to forgive. The license had been no more than an excuse and he was well aware of that.

"Where are you, Mr. Steele?" she whispered to herself. She waited for an answer, one that never came.


	6. Chapter 6: Kevin Landers

Chapter 6: Kevin Landers

On day one hundred and twenty-two, Douglas Quintain landed in London. For fifty days, he'd trekked across Ireland, Laura's voice a constant in his head, guiding him on each of his next steps. He'd begun his search in Kerry Clare, where six months before he'd found his only lead to his identity, Patrick O'Rourke, had died. His travels, in search of an elusive first cousin of O'Rourke's, had taken him from Kerry Clare, to Dublin, Dublin to Wicklow and finally, from Wicklow to Tullamore. When he'd finally located Charles O'Malley on his forty-ninth day in Ireland, the man had filled him in on what he knew.

Decades before O'Rourke had fallen in with Landers, prowling the streets of London night-after-night. The two of them had been filled with 'piss and vinegar' in those days, so the story went, and where they went trouble was sure to follow. They trolled the local bars in the evening, imbibing far too freely on ale, instigating numerous brawls along their way. Both enjoyed the company of the young women found in the seedy establishments, women who enjoyed a wink in a tumble with two men as handsome as they.

But then came the time that young Landers fell for a "'beauty o' a lass', from what Patrick described. 'air as black as a raven's feathers, eyes blue as the sea. But, it was a love ne'er meant to be, as she worked as a maid at 'is family's estate - quite forbidden, I assure ye', in those days," O'Malley made it a point to note, "but young Landers was never much o' one to obey any rule."

"Nigh onto three months into their love affair, she found 'erself to be with child. Oh, they managed to keep the babes father a secret for a while, at least. But a secret such as that can't be kept for long, don't ye know. Young Landers was caught visitin' 'is son right after the birth and word quickly reached 'is parent's ears. Furious and mortified his folks was, certain they would ne'er live the down a disgrace such as this – the heir fatherin' a bastard child with the 'elp. The lass was fired on the spot and returned 'ome, 'opin' 'er family would be o' assistance, but they turned 'er out. The shame o' it all, don't ye know. Landers searched for near on a year afore 'e gave up 'ope. With 'is trust, Landers set Paddy up in a little bar just outside o' Loughrea, where the girl's family was from, so as Paddy could keep 'is ear to the ground, so to speak. Landers bought that watch ye be 'olding an' gave it to ole Paddy with the instructions 'e were to give it to 'is son, iffin' Paddy found 'im as Paddy'd vowed 'e would. Oh, over the years Paddy had a bit o' success, even managed to come up with a couple o' photos of the boy, sending them on to Landers but the child was moved 'ere and there throughout the years until finally 'e seemed forgotten about and there were no more word on the boy. Eventually the Earl gave up 'ope of ever findin' 'is boy, turned bitter and angry and eventually landed 'imself in enough trouble a 'alf decade back, as 'e struck out at the world around 'im, that 'is family sent 'im away."

"Paddy kept 'is eyes open and ears to the ground for near on thirty years, 'e did. Then shortly afore 'e passed last year, 'e'd gotten word from one 'o 'is connections, that they 'ad some information on the lad. Near spitting image of 'is Da at that age, 'e was, 'cepting for 'e 'ad 'is Mum's eyes. Paddy paid a right pretty sum, 'e did, for the information on where to find the lad, a 'ard 'it on 'is retirement, tis true. I asked 'im, I did, why 'e done what 'e done. After all, 'e and Lander's 'adn't so much as spoken in twenty-five years."

"And what did he tell you?" Steele asked, speaking for the first time in nearly half an hour as the old man had laid out the tale.

"It was the right thing to do," O'Malley nodded, as though hearing his cousin speaking even now. "'A lad should know 'is Da, where 'e comes from, 'e said, even iffing some parts o' the story ain't so pretty.'"

"And Landers?" Steele inquired.

"Last I 'eard, 'e'd returned from overseas some years back, after 'is Da 'ad passed. Time to step up and be a man, don't ye know."

Steele had left O'Malley's stupefied by the story he'd been told, but it was close enough to the little that he knew about himself, that he had no doubt his next step was to go to London and try to locate Kevin Landers.


	7. Chapter 7: Pursued and Found

Chapter 7: Pursued and Found

She jolted awake on day one hundred and thirty-two. The same dream that had followed her into her sleep since the day he left, had danced through her sleep once again. It hadn't been until day ninety-eight that she'd finally understood why. The dream represented best memory and greatest hope – and her greatest regret and biggest fear – all wrapped up in one tidy little package.

For years she'd demanded to know his real name, then last fall had learned while they were in Ireland that it wasn't that he _wouldn't_ give it to her, but _couldn't_. She'd nagged, badgered, all but stomped her foot in demanding it in years past. But when he'd at last shared he had no idea who he'd been born as, the revelation had been both eye opening and heartbreaking. How could, after all, anyone live an entire lifetime not knowing even that basic element of themselves? Now, that lack of name proved to be the stuff nightmares were made of. When the name Douglas Quintain appeared on a manifest somewhere, it would be the last of his identities that could appear. If she was unable to find him then, she'd have no other clues to follow. He could simply be lost to her forever, unless he found a way past that last day and returned home. The entirety of it made her queasy.

Because if the last one-hundred and thirty-two days had told her anything, it was that name or no name, murky past or no murky past, she simply wanted the man: her partner, her friend, the man that made her toes curl and her heart race when he held her in his arms. She missed his quick wit that constantly challenged her, his ever present optimism that made even the worst of situations hopeful, those bright blue eyes in which she never found the reflection of herself too much or too little, his touch. Damn it, those touches that happened dozens of times a day, that assured him that she was there and, she'd realized somewhere around day one hundred and five, made her feel… valued, needed. It was a novel idea to realize for the first time in her life, that someone was not counting her shortcomings, but embracing them, even relishing them; that someone looked forward to seeing her each day as much as she did them. She'd never had that until he arrived in her life – not in her family, not in Wilson, not in her friends.

She missed it dearly.

Day one hundred and twelve brought the most shocking thought of all. Despite the fears that had hounded her for years that she'd wake one day and find him simply gone, when he was near, when he held her, she felt – she scrunched her nose at the admission – safe, happy… content. That it was there where she belonged, by his side, in his arms. It's what scared her the most about him. How would she go from that, to nothing, should he leave? Yet the man that had seldom stayed in one place for more than a few weeks, a couple of months at the outside, had stayed here, with her, for nearly three years before she'd found the one thing that would make him leave.

On day one hundred thirty-two she woke with the same thought that had been her first thought of the day for the one hundred thirty-one days that had proceeded it.

 _Where are you Mr. Steele?_

She dressed for work by rote, dreading already the moment that she'd approach the office door and see his name there, knowing the man himself would not be inside. She considered, briefly, calling out for the day. She could, after all. Business had fallen off in the last four months – both because of his lack of visibility and her own apathy. Skip traces, asset traces and following a cheating spouse had become the norm. Boring. All of it. She craved a nice, juicy murder or a tantalizing theft. But, without a partner, her partner, to watch her back, to bounce ideas off of, those cases were summarily declined.

Getting off the elevator on the eleventh floor of Century Towers, she strode down the hallway to the office. She had to pause at the doors, as seeing his name emblazoned on the doors knocked the wind out of her slightly, left her bereft. She concentrated hard, focusing herself, and with a small sigh, pasted on a smile and walked through the doors, pretending nothing whatsoever was amiss.

Today, Mildred was having none of it, as their trusted secretary was wallowing in the loss of him as well. As Laura tried to calm her, she realized that if she didn't find Steele soon, she'd have no choice but to pony up the truth. Telling the secret to which only the two of them had privy to since Bernice and Murphy left felt like a betrayal of the worst kind. He'd worked hard to not simply play the role, but became what the one-time fictitious man epitomized. Thus, she continued to put it off.

Not ten minutes later, she felt as though she'd been paroled from a lengthy sentence, when that printer began ticking away again. At long last, that final name on his last passport appeared. Douglas Quintain had returned to London.

"What are we gonna do, Miss Holt?" Mildred asked. For the first time in months, an impish grin lit Laura's face.

"Call and book us seats on the first flight to London, then go home and pack Mildred. I think this is information Mr. Steele will want delivered personally."

Mildred face lit up, and quickly set about making their reservations. Two and a half hours later, they were in the air and on their way.

* * *

From the time he first set foot in London, trouble had followed. After speaking to a slew of former associates the first day he'd arrived, only Chalkie claimed to know anything at all about the man. An associate, it seemed, had once told him of a wealthy young man, that had been a frequent client of hers for a time. But he wouldn't give up the name for no charge. Steele finally agreed to an exchange: one thousand pounds for the name of the woman: five hundred payable once Chalkie tracked her down, five hundred once Steele had her name in hand. Chalkie vowed to return in no more than two days with the name the woman was now using.

Less than a half dozen hours later, Scotland yard had swarmed the hotel he was staying at, in search of him. At first, he'd believed that someone had finally dug up enough proof of his involvement in one of his former jobs, and kismet had at last come calling. He'd quickly packed his lone suitcase and made his escape through the service elevator. Hours later, he rented a room from a woman who let out part of her apartment for income. He'd managed to stay there for all of a day, before the Yard once more appeared. He'd quickly slid out the window, descended the fire escape, and taken off on fleet foot.

And in doing so, suddenly found himself transported back in time. With no place to stay, his wallet containing only fifty pounds more than what he would owe Chalkie, and nary a piece of clothing to his name except that on his back, he found himself once more living on the streets. He caught snatches of sleep in alleyways, while keeping an eye on Chalkie's frequent haunts during the day, moving from place-to-place waiting on him to appear. After a week of such, a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Laura's asked, _What are you thinking? Surveil the place he'll most likely appear and stay there. By now you've likely missed him a half dozen times._ So, on days one hundred thirty, thirty-one and one hundred thirty-two, he found himself a nice stool upon in a pub that was one of Chalkie's favorite haunts, slowly nursing an ale each evening until the bar closed.

Tucking himself up in a corner of an alley, he longed for a warm shower, a hot meal… for Laura. There, he'd catnap throughout the night, ever vigilant for whatever miscreant might be thinking to roll him for whatever his pockets might contain. He was filthy, unshaven, wearing the same clothes that had been on his back for eleven days now.

That is how Laura found him, or he her, he was never quite sure which. Seeing the young boy hurdle the fence with the woman's purse in hand, she in fast pursuit, he'd lunged out of his little corner, grabbing the leg of the woman, thinking to take over the chase himself. Pure instinct had guided him, but when he'd given the woman's leg a quick tug, he'd been completely flummoxed to find it was Laura standing before him. Her brown eyes widened at the sight of him and without thought, they demanded the same question of one another in harmony.

"What are you doing here?"

He'd not even managed to absorb the fact that she was there before him, her small hand pressed against his chest, when out of the corner of his eye he spied the persistent detective who had been trying to flush him out for days. With no time to think, he'd hurdled the fence himself, and in his shock, offered her a jaunty, "Lovely seeing you again, Laura. Keep in touch."

He'd heard her stunned and quasi-outraged voice been him, as he took flight.

"You _creep_! Keep in touch? I flew six-thousand miles to see you!"

And, even as he fled the detective in pursuit, in those words his heart found the first comfort it had known in more than four months.

It was not coincidental at all, to find her there. She'd come six thousand miles in search of him.

(TBC)


End file.
